


In Passing

by cannedsunlight



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Crisis, Fever Dreams, Identity, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Panic Attacks, Robot/Human Relationships, Self-Doubt, Sick Character, Trauma, android anatomy, feelings are complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25109896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannedsunlight/pseuds/cannedsunlight
Summary: It’s perfect. It’s terrifying.It isn’treal. He knows this. He wishes he knew this, here.In a dream, he’s some version of him.Written for the New ERA Birthday Reverse Big Bang.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: New ERA Discord: Reverse Big Bang





	In Passing

**Author's Note:**

> Update 15/07/2020:  
> A little background info - the artist I was assigned to originally couldn't deliver their work on time due to personal reasons. I was then assigned a new partner - the wonderful Pepper - _thank_ you - who had signed up _only_ as a pinch hitter; whoever connected them with me unfortunately failed to mention that the prompt for this Big Bang is _identity_. :')  
> I have decided, for reasons that have to do with clearer access and honoring the art, to remove the parts of this story that don't have to do with it, strictly speaking. Hence: Here's the dream sequence, directly inspired by the piece of art - it works as a standalone.  
> I'll link the entire work - which is about 11k and delves much, much more into the aspect of identity - here:  
> ( https://docs.google.com/document/d/10zJcHjg7QcVAWP_BL4U-8g1X0ya5xOxM3F-6ikNDeOI/edit?usp=sharing )  
> Links do not seem to work for me these days, so here it is written out, I'm not risking anything. If you want to give the whole thing a read, go ahead. I'll leave the according tags up.  
>   
> Forgive me. Drastic measures. I think you should enjoy the art and the related writing, it shouldn't get lost as it did before.  
> Take a good look at @GlassRoar's piece here:  
> ( https://twitter.com/GlassRoar/status/1280272750293258242 )  
> Their additional prompt was, I quote, "I just want Hank to lick Connor".  
>   
> Happy reading. ;)

It’s the light that’s off immediately when he opens his eyes. Burns into them like the pressure of palms pressing, punches some sluggish stars into them. Spinning. Lets up slowly, very slowly. His head hurts. He feels sluggish, an exhausted kind of sickly.

It’s pulsing, bright. Seeps onto the ground from underneath his closed door.  
He’s still in bed. That much is certain. His own room is dark; nothing filters in from outside, the light is plugged in, but refuses to be turned on. _Click, click.  
_Hank curses - finds that it doesn’t bother him as much as his dry throat does. Always the same when waking up in the middle of the night. Blindly searches for the glass of water, can’t find it - knocks something over, a distant _chink, thud,_ not at all next to the nightstand, in a corner of his room instead, an impact like a flick, exploding into shards that sound far too sharp and far too muffled. It’s weird, it’s fucking weird. Just wants to drink something. Feels like he’s clawing at his throat like this, just croaking, just halfway everything. Things disperse sickly.  
His fingers keep searching, he’s dragging himself closer to the nightstand over his mattress, blanket messily wrapped around his legs, it’s riding down with the movement. He finds the lamp again - the switch is gone. Has a large button instead. Half dome, smooth. Bets his ass it’s red. Hell no. Hell no. He’s not pressing that.  
The little digital clock reads, in thick bright red letters, 1:23 am. One two three. Ha ha. Seems to flicker, briefly.  
“You seem amused.”  
He’s not alone.  
Connor’s sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. Can barely make out his outline; back straight, hands folded atop his lap. Familiar. Gives himself eyestrain trying to make out his face, if anything’s moving at all.  
“You won’t find anything to drink.” A pause. “Not anymore.” A final kind of snarkish. Threatening, almost.  
No, nothing. No visible movement. Just a light crinkle, he can _hear_ the movement. Is frozen in place, he realizes, stares him down, the dark shape in the corner of his room, doesn’t know where to look, doesn’t want to look away, not really. He feels on edge. Extremely so.  
“I’ve taken myself the liberty to dispose of it.”  
“Of what?”  
“Your drinks. God knows you don’t need any more, Lieutenant.”  
“For fuck’s sake, Connor, it was _tap water_ \- “  
Connor’s voice takes on a deploring color. Can hear the smile to go along with it.  
“We both know that this is not true, Hank.”  
The shape turns its head, and Hank flinches when the light catches in its eyes, a sudden glint - two regretful brown dots on an otherwise empty figure. It’s fiery, almost, that light, a cold burning orange. Shouldn’t be nearly as strong as it is, catching it at such a distance.  
Hank does tear away his eyes, now, he’s gonna prove that fucker wrong, unbelievable - surely there’s that glass or another glass - _just water_ -  
There it is. A small generic thing, the kind one can get in large furniture stores. He bought them in a pack of six, he recalls. But there are more than six. The entire night stand is full of glasses, alongside one another, dozens and dozens and dozens. On the nightstand, continuing on the floor, a sea of crystal-clad gold.  
It’s not water. None of it is.  
He reaches out, takes one - a single gap in the mass - raises it to his face. Takes first a sniff - sharp, akin to disinfectant - then a small sip. As if there’d be any doubt left about what it is. Spits it right back out. The reaction is immediate - the glass in his hand splinters, explodes, the same way the other one did, almost like a cheap sound effect, unclear somehow and distant, rains down in the air around him, never hits him or anything else, simply disperses mid-air.  
“Get a grip”, corner Connor says. Once. Twice. Get a grip. _Get a grip_. Louder, angrier.  
“We’re all moving forward, even I am, and you continue to waste away and waste and waste and - “  
Hank presses his hands against his ears. It builds up and builds up and builds up and -  
He yells. Once. Loudly. He can’t do it. He can’t.  
Silence. A sudden cut. Ringing ears.  
“Dad. Dad, please”. A small voice at the side of his bed. Teary-eyed, desperate. How long has it been calling out for him? Since when -  
“It’s okay, son, it’s okay”, Hank says. Where’s his son? His son’s there, here, here somewhere - has him. An embrace. “It’s okay.”  
“No.” Sniffle, sniffle. “It’s not.”  
Hank pulls away to look at him. It’s his son alright.  
He’s wearing Connor’s face. The voice morphs grotesquely. Connor’s voice clawing its way out of the too small body. “Get a grip, Lieutenant.”  
Roaring noise. Connor has two bottles of whiskey in his hands, too large, much too large, they’re never this large, raises them above his head and smashes them together. There’s an impact. Sticky, sharp. “Wake up, Hank. I’m not your son.”  
It punches the air right out of his chest, he can’t breathe, can’t -  
The moments after that are a blur.  
Connor walks out the door, or right through it; or he’s just - gone, suddenly.  
“Cole! Cole. Where are ya, son?” Desperate,  
Tires squealing. Glass bursting. Real this time. Behind the door, there. A scream.  
It’s too much. Too much.  
He’s on his feet so fast he almost crashes back down, doesn’t even notice that the floor is clean. He’s bolting for the door, rips it open. “Cole! _Cole!_ ”

Hank awakens brutally. Incoherent mumbling, a hand on his chest, pushing him gently back down. A weight on one side of his mattress, a light dip. _Shh. Shh. It was a dream, you were dreaming. You’re okay. You’re okay._  
Dread pools in his middle. Someone’s crying. Just a dream.

He’s still in the same place. The soundtrack of disaster has ceased. The relief is immeasurable. It fades, fades. Is gone.  
As soon as he’s stepped through the door it closes behind him, snaps shut with a soft final click and he knows that’s it, no going back for now. A transition. A change.  
Before him, stretched out bright and large, larger than life-sized and extremely so, a bar counter. Bottles strung together in one glimmering line so long he can’t see the end of it, blurry in the distance, losing individual shapes.  
He’s right on top of it. Shiny varnished wood, dark and elegant, some nicks and scratches here and there.  
Not too far away from him, a single glass.  
It’s large. Large enough for a whole grown person to sit in.

  


A glimmering drink. A Russell’s Reserve Single Barrel Rye.  
And, half-submerged in it, Connor. Leaning, lying comfortably.  
It soaks his shirt, a weight - it clings to him like this. Ice cubes on either side. He catches Hank staring - stares right back, unabashed, expression unchanging. Runs the fingers of his right hand over the glass, the rim. It’s fogged with moisture. Leaves some smeared lines in it, cold fingertips. Drags them right through, then lifts them to his lips, and licks the moisture right off.  
Allows his hand to continue, lets it travel from the glass to his legs, runs them over them, presenting. All the way up to the garters keeping thin white socks in place. Leans back until his neck hits the rim, leans back until his head is tipped back, lifts one leg, stretches it all the way out up into the air. Spreads them some, those legs, in this position, reveals smooth dips and curves, an obscene curvature right in the middle.  
Hank’s throat goes dry. He’s moved closer, he notices. Almost, almost there. A tease from his dreams. What a goddamn tease, always such a goddamn tease.  
“Why - why are ya doing this.” His voice is weak. Helpless. Confused, but not - he’s not distancing himself from it. Not at all.  
Faint tingling in his hands, spreading. A _want_. A desperate want.  
“Because I want to.”  
Connor grabs the hem of one of the knee socks, pulls it down towards his knee, the leg stretching out a little to work against and with the motion, pulls them tight into position.  
“Because you like it.”  
“It’s wrong, Connor. You can’t - “  
Connor puts a finger on his lips. _Shh_ _.  
_“I was made to adapt, Hank. I’m happy to give you what you want.” A wink. He’s beckoning him. _Encouraging_ him. It could be enough, just showing off, but that’s not it, is it.  
Music. A whisper in the air, swelling, sweet, almost tangible enough to be a curling thing on his tongue. Floating brass, a thin sharp curvy line with its edges turned inwards, softening itself. Tugs of bass.  
"Joanna Harper", Connor says.  
The name doesn’t ring a bell. Doesn’t make it feel different. It doesn’t feel different, now that it has a name. Still can’t locate it; Ah! Joanna Harper. It’s empty, it’s a meaningless placement.  
"Huh", he says, smartly. "Which one?"  
Connor lowers his leg back down, slowly.  
"I don't know", he says. "I can't tell."  
His hands, where did his hands go?  
"One of the instruments. One of them is her. I can't seem to figure out which one it is."  
Hank feels a distinctly _not_ hot breath brushing his neck, hands on his back, his side, sliding towards his own hands, fingers on his skin, through the fabric. First one pair, then two, three, all on him. It doesn’t feel threatening. They’re all Connor. Body on body, pressure, one consciousness after another popping up behind him like a line of lights in one large long hall underground. _Click, click, click._ What’s in it? An entire population? A _warehouse?_ He can’t see them, can’t turn around.  
Can't seem to figure out -  
The one in the glass has averted his eyes, just slightly, thoughtful. He’s listening, Hank realizes. Still trying to figure it out.  
Then - "I’ve taken a liking to this kind of music. I think I’m narrowing it down. I think I - "  
The other Connors withdraw. Hank blinks. He didn’t blink them away, they withdrew on their own accord. Linger somewhere behind him now, an unknown distance. "Yeah", he says. "Yeah, you - "  
Records on the ground, three, on the ground right in front of him. There they are. Smooth Jazz. Top classics. Top ten. Some names, some dates, more names. They’re larger than he remembers.  
“She is an android, you know.” Hank meets Connor’s eyes. Can’t read them, can only see his face, very close, very far away.  
He’s closer, bends down to pick up one of the records, to inspect them. It’s rather casual really. He picks up each one of them, gives them a once-over, puts them back down.  
"I find it fascinating and saddening alike. I’m not capable of such creative pursuit, I lack the imagination."  
"What d’ya mean? Always seemed pretty imaginative to me." Voice flat. Dry.  
Distressed little frown. "You’re - "  
"I’m joking."  
"Right."  
"What about those - " He tries to depict it with his hands. " - that thing you do, with the reconstruction. Works the other way ‘round too, don’t it?"  
"Not like this." Turns to the side, down, down towards him, hooks a finger under his chin, tips it upwards. That’s when he knows that something’s shifted. This isn’t Connor - this is what he _wants_ Connor to do.  
This is his own, private little secret. His own private little re- and preconstruction. It’s not something he’d do, is it? It’s not something. Can't seem to figure out -  
"It is useful for some other things, though, Hank." Voice lower, closer.  
Hank needs to clear his throat, his voice is raspy, hoarse. "Yeah? Like what?"  
Lips on his. A soft pressure, warmer than he’d think. Hands on his face, pulling him close.  
Things align, in this moment. Things are entirely out of shape, off scale, upscaled, a kernel of truth in the middle. It’s perfect. It’s terrifying.  
It isn’t _real_ _._ He knows this. He wishes he knew this, here.  
In a dream, he’s some version of him.  
  
Hank grabs Connor’s thighs - there’s an odd give to it, just enough - and pulls his legs further apart. Catches Connor watching. Pulse quickening, almost breathless. Doesn’t lean in just yet; instead, nudges the flesh of the inner thigh with his nose, then licks it. One strong, long line, up to the knee. Connor shudders; his fingers twitch.  
There’s whiskey on it, on his skin, a wet golden shine.  
Fingers twitch, search for something to cling to, it's a slippery endeavour, this, for both of them - he moves a certain direction, just slightly, has his ass pressing against the glass.  
Please. Please. Hank’s heart skips a beat, half expects Connor to comment on it. He doesn’t. There’s an urgency about him, now, like this. “Please, Hank - “ Lips parted, eyes half-lidded. “Closer. _More_ _._ ”  
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Moves lower and lower, further into the in between, the heat, until he’s reached the area between the android’s legs. Leans in, and runs his tongue over it. A surprised gasp reaches his ears.  
“Like this?”  
“ _Please_.”  
Hank’s teeth find the garters, pull them right off. Thrown aside. Pulls off the socks, too. Grabs Connor’s legs, then, puts them up on his shoulders, pulls him close, close. A whole-bodied shudder runs through the android, his legs cross behind Hank’s head, neck, shoulder blades, tighten with it. “Don’t stop.”  
  
  
He’s thrown into a different perspective, then. Sees himself, sees Connor, from a distance, two bodies becoming one, heated, fervent. Hungry. Glistening skin, tangled limbs.  
He can’t tear his eyes away from it.  
Connor sits next to him, follows his line of sight. Something in his eyes, a strange gleam. Sadness. Yearning.  
“Do… do you - “ Clears his throat, swallows. It’s not easy to say, not easy to ask. “Do you want this, Connor?"  
He doesn’t get a response for a long time.  
Then,  
“Is this real?”

His hands all over that freckled skin, every curve, every movement.  
Lips on lips, warm and wet, desperate almost, can’t let go, can’t let go. Ragged breathing, sweat. “I’ve wanted this for so long, Hank.”  
His nose in his hair, a whisper into it.  
“Does it feel real to you?”  
Connor clings to him, wraps his legs around his waist, strong and warm. “Yes”, he gasps. “It feels very real.”

When Hank wakes up, there’s unshed tears sitting on his lashes, and a yearning in his chest, his throat - a revelation - so heavy it’s almost unbearable.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Happy birthday, New ERA, and thank you to this prompt for allowing me to write some things I've meant to write for a while but never did.  
>   
> May there be hope in your life. Endings and beginnings. Listen and speak. ☆


End file.
